


happiness is a warm gun (wanna hold you in my arms)

by questionsthemselves



Series: steer your way through the ruins [5]
Category: Guardians of the Galaxy (Movies)
Genre: Angst, Cunnilingus, Did I Mention There Was Angst?, M/M, Missing Scene, Pining, Post-exile fic, Ravager-style violence, fair warning if that's not your thing, guys with innies and barbed dicks y'all, pretending emotions don't exist is so much fun, references to vaguely suicidal tendencies but no actual suicidal ideations or anything further
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-26
Updated: 2018-03-02
Packaged: 2019-03-24 06:57:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,350
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13805886
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/questionsthemselves/pseuds/questionsthemselves
Summary: “Someone getting a little soft on me?” Yondu grins, face splintering into unforgiving edges and mocking. “'S just a retrieval, it’ll be easier ’n shooting orloni in a barrel.”Kraglin stares down, at Yondu sprawled and swiveling idly in the briefing room chair. He can’t seriously be thinking of taking this. They may be scraping through the bottom swill of the merc boards, but this job is borderline suicide.In which Kraglin watches as Yondu continues to self-destruct post-exile





	1. Chapter 1

“Someone getting a little soft on me?” Yondu grins, face splintering into unforgiving edges and mocking. “'S just a retrieval, it’ll be easier ’n shooting orloni in a barrel.” 

Kraglin stares down, at Yondu sprawled and swiveling idly in the briefing room chair. He can’t seriously be thinking of taking this. They may be scraping through the bottom swill of the merc boards, but this job is borderline suicide. 

“Sir– it’s not…“ Kraglin's shoulders inch slowly higher and higher, and he forces them down. “This isn’t just on the edge of Kree space. This is inside it. Our gunners are good, but if there’s enough of them on our tail we ain’t–“

“Don’t tell me what we ain’t,” Yondu’s voice is almost jovial, the kind of benign tone that raises every one of the many hairs Kraglin sprouts. “Your job to tell me how we can.”

His eyetooth hooks over his upper lip, eyes hooding just so. It shoots an entirely ill-timed tingle of want up Kraglin’s chest, the way Yondu so causally dusts himself with danger. Maybe after all this…

Kraglin inhales slow, turns to collapse into the chair across. He’s planned out Yondu’s cockamamie scenes dozens of times before of course. Yondu’s clever, wily, but this kind of strategy has always been Kraglin’s job. But nothing that he’s planned has been as jeopardous as casually sauntering into Kree owned space. 

Oh, Yondu’s always taken a bullheadedly stubborn pleasure in getting himself into the riskiest situations, on the flimsiest pretenses. Being told what he should be doing instead only has him digging in his heels, like leading a bilge snipe to a watering hole and trying to make it drink. 

So really, Kraglin supposes, it’s always been like this. And now, they’re backed into a corner. There might not be any other choice, not really. 

He still has to try. They’re alone, no crew to put on a face for like if this were on the bridge. Captains chart the course, but it’s the first mate’s job to warn them when they’re being a stiff-necked asshole. Right now Yondu isn’t just being a stiff-necked asshole, he’s being a vaguely suicidal one. 

Kraglin swallows, tries again. 

“Saw another posting on the merc boards this morning, it’s only hundred thou or so less than this one.”

Well, maybe more like a couple hundred thousand, but who’s counting? Beggars can’t be choosers and all the junk.

Yondu’s squints, and doesn’t budge. 

“That’s a hundred thousand we can’t do without. Even spreading it between fewer crew, there’s still that pain in my ass refit we gotta spring for, an’ it won’t come cheap.” 

Right. The refit from the Oblo situation. Hadn’t that been a treat to deal with, their latest casualty in the shortage of hands on deck. When everyone was wrangled into working in areas that weren’t normally their specialty, mishaps were bound to shoot sky high. 

Kraglin mitigated the potentially unfortunate assignments when he could, but he wasn’t on duty round the clock. Retch had put an unhappy Oblo to work with engineering, and it ended up with an explosion that took out the environmental controls for an entire quadrant. Good thing they didn’t have enough crew for space to be an issue.

They’re lucky though, they haven’t had any worse accidents. After all, they’d taken one of their hardest hits in the engineering department after–

Well. After. 

Lucky for Oblo, he was the only halfway decent tailor they had left or Yondu probably would have spaced him or marooned him over that mess. 

“I’ve already made sure he won’t be put on that kind of work detail again,” Kraglin slumps,reaches up to rub at the tension in his shoulder. “Cap’n… there’s gotta be something else.”

“An’ I’m saying there ain’t,” Yondu’s tone is final, and with a last slap of the table he pushes himself to his feet. “Oh, and Obfonteri?” 

“Sir?” Kraglin glances up. 

“Meeting in my cabin tomorrow night, after the gig,” a dirty smirk pulls at the corners of Yondu’s mouth, and he winks. “Got some papers t’go over, things to do.”

Hrmph. More like a Yondu to do. Not that Kraglin has any objections. None of those at all, although he wishes…

Yondu still makes sure to stubbornly insist each and every one of the times they’ve done this, that it’s only blowing off steam. Only because it’s convenient, only because it’s fun.

“I won’t be late,” he quirks his lips up tiredly. 

Yondu reaches down, drags a calloused thumb across Kraglin’s lips, pushes just the tip of it inside his mouth. Kraglin shudders, melts. If only they didn’t have other places to be, he shove Yondu back down in that chair, push his legs wide. Settle himself between them, get those damn buckles open so he could– 

“See you aren’t, or I might have t’get started without ya,” Yondu pulls away, saunters out the door. As soon as the last swish of red leather is gone, Kraglin stamps the flickers of arousal down and lets himself bury his head in his folded arms. 

Fuck. He’s not gonna lie to himself, the crew of the exiled _Eclector_ is creaking along on fumes and Yondu’s reputation. Their old contacts refuse to deal with a ship on Ogord’s shit list, and they haven’t built up enough of reputation with their new ones to have everything a ship requires coming in reliably. 

Hiring crew has proved an even shoddier proposition. Way things are looking, soon enough they’re not gonna be able to turn almost anyone away – not even the pot-stirring musclebound scum, or the ones that stupidity should have killed by now. What little reputation they’ve rebuilt as Ravager exiles isn’t attracting the kind of crew Kraglin would even be neutral about taking on. But beggars can’t be choosers. 

And Yondu… he doesn’t know how long Yondu’s gonna keep pushing like this, but it’s gonna take something more than him to make him stop. Something has to be able to snap him out his… whatever it is. Kraglin digs his nails into his palms, then pushes himself to his feet. No matter what, he’s gonna have to find that something more.


	2. Chapter 2

Kraglin rams his knife up through the Sakaaran’s ribs and back out, arcs it around and across the throat of the next. The battle screams of the crew echo around him. Somewhere to his left is Tullk’s throaty yell, accent strong enough the translator chip only feeds through syllables thicker than clotted cream. Horuz screams insults, strings the most colorful ones together like beads whether they make sense or not. Usually they don’t. And Yondu’s– 

Wait. Where the hell is Yondu’s whistle? It may not be the loudest thread of noise making up the cacophonous tapestry of the battlefield. But Kraglin’s ears are better than most, and if he can't hear Yondu’s whistling he’s gone far enough away to make Kraglin’s skin start up an itch. Especially in the sort of cavern they’re in now. 

Maybe he’s already out the entrance? 

Blaster fire screeches by his ear and Kraglin ducks, swings his blaster up and around to shoot down a Sakaaran. Another tries to take advantage of his distraction, and Kraglin brings the knife is his other hand up just in time to stab it up through the bottom of a jaw. 

To Kraglin's relief though, the  fight is starting to thin. Thank the stars they’ve only had to handle the left-behind contingent on this desiccated outpost of a planet.

Whatever stupid ball of a trinket they’ve been hired to retrieve is resting heavy in Kraglin’s pack, banging into his spine with every movement, and t hey need to get out of here. First he needs to find Yondu, and then they have to get out of here. The Sakaaran contingent must have called for Kree backup. Kraglin’s lost track of time in the melee but by now they can’t be more than a few jumps away. 

Kraglin swipes his sleeve across his forehead, but it does nothing but smear the dirt and sweat. He scans the cave for any flash of blue, but none of them are Yondu. The call needs to go out, to light up every Ravager’s comm so they know to fall back to the ships. 

And unless captain’s down, captain needs to be the one to make that call. 

Maybe one of the other senior crew has seen him. Kraglin shoves his way through the writhing explosion of bodies and blaster fire to Tullk, laughing, dreads swinging, and a blaster in each hand. The greasy battle paint he always wears streaks his cheeks, eyes shining crazed.

“Tullk, y’seen Cap’n?” Now there can’t be more than a few dozen Sakaarans left at most, it’s easier for his voice to carry.

“Deeper in, last I saw him,” Tullk doesn’t stop scanning, shoots down a soldier going for Retch’s back. 

Deeper in the cavern? What the stars-damned hell is he doing _deep_ , they already got what they came to get. 

Kraglin pushes deeper into the cavern, ignores the instincts screaming at him to go back towards light and escape. His species had been cave-dwelling ages back, practically a stage of evolution ago. All Kraglin has gotten out of that particular ancestry was bad eyesight, uncanny keen smell and hearing, and a penchant for attacking problems teeth first. 

Wait. There. The sound is unmistakable. 

A few paces more and Kraglin can finally see Yondu. He’s still standing near the pedestal where they’d found their troublesome treasure and shit. Kraglin sees why he is still down here. The Sakaaran unit must have been left with back-up armored droids, and Yondu’s fighting off four. 

Unlike their fleshy counterpoints, they’re not nearly so incapacitated by an arrow hole through their middles. They’re made to sustain fire from an ion cannon blaster, so less than that is only seeming to slow them down. Yondu’s torn them up pretty good though, it can’t be long until the droids are down. 

His teeth are red, and his knuckles are red and there’s blood-lust shining from his eyes. They glow crimson and crazed with the light of his arrow as he grabs it laughing from the air. He fingers it gently, a kind of manic joy lighting his face, and then he sends it singing out again.

“Cap’n,” Kraglin eels between two of the distracted droids, puts his back to Yondu’s. “C’mon, we need to get out of here before reinforcement come.” 

He brushes against Kraglin when he turns, but he never stops whistling. Fuck. The droids may be tough but they’re slower than mud – there’s more than enough time for Kraglin and Yondu to sprint back to the others. Kraglin waits a beat, then tries again.

“Sir,” he says, ragged and pleading, grabs at Yondu’s arm. “Cap’n, _please._ we need to go.”

As soon as Kraglin touches him, Yondu’s head snaps around. For one dizzying second Kraglin sees his lips purse, the point of his arrow swivel, can almost feel it pressing at this throat. But the wild light blinks out of Yondu’s eyes and he whistles short and sharp to call it back to his hand. 

He presses the button for his comm link, sends his voice echoing down a dozen Ravager receivers. 

“We got the goods, y’all,” he barks, “Back t’the Eclector.” 

Yondu limps up the cavern, Kraglin behind him hissing through his teeth at the unsteadiness in Yondu’s steps. He's gotten hurt in at least one leg and the way he’s got an arm wrapped around his middle doesn’t look so great either. 

Yondu hadn’t said a damn thing. Not that he would. 

They join a rush of Ravagers all pelting for the ship. Kraglin tries not to trip over limp forms as he goes, and there’s a few bodies slung over leather-covered shoulders. Solar winds willing, they’ve got all of their own. 

They can’t really do their dead right, Kraglin knows. Someday he himself will have to go to the stars without the proper rites, to drift out dark and alone. But at least they can dress the bodies the way they should be, burn them in the stars instead of leaving them to rot on the ground.

Later. He can’t think on things like that now. Right now he needs to get Yondu to the med bay, or barring that, bring a med bag to Yondu’s quarters. 

Kraglin huffs, skitters into the M-ship behind Yondu. There’s already crew at the helm so after a hurried glance Kraglin leaves them to it. 

Most likely it’d be the med bag. As long as Kraglin’s known him, Yondu has never set foot inside a med bay while conscious. He could be barely able to keep himself upright, or bleeding out all over the floor, and he’d still stubbornly insist he it was ‘just a flesh wound’ and was Kraglin his mother now? Oh wait, he didn’t really have one of those, so Kraglin might as well stop trying to imitate her. 

The M-ships whirr to life, shooting into the sky with that last of the Sakaarans’ blaster fire pinging uselessly off the side.

it’s not like Kraglin doesn’t get it. Yondu is supposed to have a crest after all, proud and arched and flowing instead of that wedge of metal welded to his scalp. Whatever Kree hell doctors did that and probably more to him… well. Kraglin knows how to write. 

He could make those fuckers' intestines spell out a prettier apology than their mouths ever could. 

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so the backstory for Kraglin that might become officially part of the series at some point is my fic 'oh the bright and hollow sky' so Kraglin's musings might make more sense if you read that first.

 

Kraglin winces as the door smacks shut behind him, shoulders twitching at the jarring scrape of metal on metal. Doesn’t matter how many times it happens, it still makes his skin shudder unpleasantly every one of them. 

He doesn’t know how Yondu stands it. It’s been months of coming back daily to that, and that stupid thing is still broken. Especially now, nerves still jittering and sparking with the last rivulets of adrenaline streaking through him. If Yondu doesn’t task someone, Kraglin’s just gonna take a day and do it his damn self. 

“Just invite yourself in, why don’cha,” Yondu drawls. He’s still in his filthy leathers, standing in front of a holoscreen that covers near half the back of his wall. The inbox is open, a strangely familiar comm-pic blinking red, but before Kraglin can get closer Yondu swipes it closed. 

“Thought we was supposed to meet tonight,” his voice is gruff, unreadable. 

“Decided to move it up a little when I saw you walking funny,” Kraglin says, slides his med bag off his shoulders, crouches down to start pulling the supplies out. 

It doesn’t come natural to him, fixing people up. If he had his druthers he’d rather be fixing cogs and wires, or taking them apart. It was the only part he’d regretted, putting on first mate. Isn’t so much time for tinkering when you got a whole ship you’re half responsible for.

It’s still a mystery to him how Yondu had known he’d take to engineering though, a wide-eyed nub in baggy leathers that would barely stay on. Only skills he’d had fresh off the back alleys of Knowhere were knifing and sneaking and staying alive. 

He’s gotten better though, at putting people back together. Had enough practice by now. 

“Ain’t nothing,” Yondu snaps, ducks his head and scowls. 

“Don’t even start,” Kraglin methodically lays out the disinfectant pads, medipaste, bandages. “I saw you holding your side too, don’t think I didn’t.”

Yondu sticks out his lip.

“‘S just a flesh wound,” in spite of his words, he’s casually slouching closer.

“And since I weren’t picked as your first yesterday, “ Kraglin continues like he hasn’t been interrupted. “I brought the med bay t’you.”

Yondu makes a rude noise, but obediently drops to sit on the edge of the bed. 

“Doc’s a hack,” he plants his hands, leans back, “Don’t trust him.”

When Yondu makes no move to undo his buckles, Kraglin sighs in exasperation and moves close enough he can do it himself. 

“You hired him, y’know.”

It’s a good thing, Kraglin supposes, that Yondu’s begun to ditch the bare-chest space pimp look for something slightly more clothed and captainly. More protection, even if it didn’t quite have the same panache. 

He’s added a layer though, since last time Kraglin did this, and unfortunately a few more buckles. Yondu shifts restlessly under his hands, and Kraglin casts for something to get his focus off what he’s about to do. 

“Noticed the new getup,” he flicks at one of the buckles, then smirks dirty up at Yondu. “You trying to make it harder for me to get you out of this?”

The distraction works and Yondu leers down, eyes focusing in again. For a moment again, there’s silence, only the rasp of leather on metal. Then he licks his lips, say rough, “Y’know, you did good today, Krags. Looked mighty pretty slashing around those knives of yours.” 

Kraglin breathes in sharp, heat flushing down his cheeks. His hands keep moving, wiping disinfectant across the gash on Yondu’s side. 

“Was thinking on when we was fighting together, in the cavern,” Yondu eyes the blue dusting Kraglin’s face, hones in like a cat outside an orloni-infested venthole. He seems determined now to break Kraglin’s focus, and goddamn him it’s starting to work, “Wish I'd shoved you right up against that pedestal, seen you staring down at me, tense and quivering with blood on your mouth.” 

Goddamn the man. Kraglin globs medipaste on Yondu’s wound with barely steady fingers, and he can see it in his mind.

“I'd've held y’there, just ‘cause I could,” Yondu leans closer, breath hot on Kraglin’s face. He grins sly and fierce, glinting metal. “Just ‘cause I’d be the only one you’d let.”

_Fuck._

Kraglin’s hands spasm on the bandages. He needs to get them on before the medipaste dries, but his throat is dry, and he _wants._

Yondu’s always done this to him, since he was a skittish, feral-eyed street rat abandoned to haunt the sinkholes of a rotted port. He still doesn’t know why Yondu had spared him that day, when Kralin’d made that laughable attempt to mug him. Why when Kraglin had rashly smashed their lips together at the bar after one too many pointed jabs about his immaturity, he laughed and kissed him back. 

Yondu had joked about that, that first night curled together after the exile. Said he kissed better now. 

“I would’ve,” Kraglin secures the wrappings in place, starts to gently palpate Yondu’s leg. “Let you.” 

He keeps his eyes fixed firmly on the leg he’s inspecting, but Yondu’s knees are dropping apart. He’s breathing faster too, the sound harsh in the silence. 

A muscle is probably strained, but it’s nothing a pain pack and rest won’t solve. Better make sure before Kraglin puts the supplies away though. 

“Need you t’take your trousers off,” Kraglin scoots back on his knees to give Yondu space. 

“Aw, not gonna sweet talk me a little first?” Yondu slinks to his feet, as much as he can down one leg. Every drag of the buckle, the slide down his hips, is slow, deliberate and teasing. When they’re off, he kicks them out of the way and sprawls back onto the bed and _fuck_. 

Kraglin bites his lip, presses the heel of his palm punishingly against the growing bulge of his dick. Yondu’s wet, soaking dark through the thin cotton of his underwear. 

“Don’t think you need much more of that,” Kraglin rasps, slides his hands trembling up smooth blue calves, over knees, kneads into the plush of muscled thighs. “ _Fuck_ , you’re wet.” 

The leather has done its protective job well enough and there’s no other injuries left that Kraglin can fix. His supplies are still piled haphazardly on top of his bag, but right Kraglin couldn’t give a damn. He’s waited long enough for this, to get his hands on Yondu, feel Yondu’s pulse fluttering between his teeth. 

“Well maybe,” Yondu grins filthy, lets his legs splay open a little wider. “You should do something about that.”

Yes. Kraglin should. 

He swallows, drags his palms further up the insides of Yondu’s thighs to squeeze at the dip of his hips. 

“Thassit it, boy,” Yondu’s voice is sliding rough, “C’mon, get your mouth on me. Been thinking ‘bout it since yesterday.”

it’s not an order, not really. Kraglin would walk out if Yondu really tried to order him in here and Yondu knows it. And in spite of his talk when they do this, Yondu doesn’t even seem to want that, to order Kraglin around  – as much as he puts on a front about it.

Kraglin leans in, breathes heavy right over the heat of him. Yondu’s muscles tighten and he shudders, lifts his hips up pleadingly.

“Want these off,” Kraglin plucks at the hem of Yondu's underwear, trails his thumb down to tap over Yondu’s clit. Yondu curses, and shoves them hurriedly down so Kraglin can see the soft blue heat of his cunt. 

He loves this, loves that this is his to touch and lick and finger and fuck. It might've not been quite what he was expecting that first time, but Kraglin isn't picky about genatalia. He breathes over Yondu again, presses his lips just above his clit, in the crease of his hips, everywhere but where Yondu wants him. 

“Cuttit out,” Yondu reaches down to shove at his head, grumbles, ”Don’t need you being all _sweet_.”

Fine. If Yondu wants to be like that. Kraglin pins Yondu’s hips firm, seals his lips around Yondu’s clit, gives a hard suck. Yondu yowls, and Kraglin pulls off and cocks an eyebrow at him.Yondu seems to get the message and he huffs, “Fine. Dick.”  And stares up at the ceiling like he’s beseeching it for patience. 

He always wants it rough. Kraglin had tried once, fucking him slow and gentle, cradling him close. It’d got him dumped off the side of the bed. Yondu’s foot jabbing into his ribs to keep him there. At least until Kraglin got fed up and pounced, hiked Yondu’s hands up and pinned them there, shoved back in as Yondu keened and melted so sweet.

Suppose when you've been raised on nothing but battlefields, it's hard to ever stop fighting.

Kraglin huffs, goes back to dragging his lips gently over Yondu’s cunt. He presses delicate kisses at the hood, at the side, over his hole. Yondu’s dripping, and Kraglin face is getting smeared already. _Fuck_ he’s so wet for Kraglin. 

He’s shifting impatiently, so Kraglin licks gently up the core of him, traces between his folds, and down to tease the edges of his hole, fuck in the tip of his tongue. Yondu loves that, having Kraglin inside him. 

His cock throbs, as he fucks his tongue deeper, and he reaches down to clumsily pops the buckles on his jumpsuit. Soon as he’s free, he wraps a hand around himself with a half-sob of relief.

“Look’t you,” Yondu’s breathing faster now, one hand buried in Kraglin’s sweaty mohawk, the other twisting in the bed sheets. “Getting off on eating me out.”

He’s fucking his hips up against Kraglin’s mouth now, smearing himself on Kraglin’s face and Kraglin hums a little in retaliation. Yondu’s head falls back, his rhythm stutters, and Kraglin needs to make him look like that some more. 

They haven’t done this much, Yondu normally goading and pushing until he can get Kraglin buried inside him. Kraglin’s quick though. He’ll watch and remember until he can make Yondu _scream_ for him. 

He tongues faster at Yondu’s clit, humming and moaning against him. Yondu’s starting to do that thing he does, when he’s about to come, sucking in air between his teeth, back slowly fixing in an arch. Kraglin doesn’t move, stays steady as Yondu winds tighter and tighter, finally breaks. His hips judder hard, smearing even wetter over Kraglin mouth. 

Stars, if the bastard isn’t gorgeous like this, shuddering apart all sweet because of Kraglin. He reaches up to swipe his fingers through Yondu’s wetness, ignores his hiss as he reaches down to strip himself faster. It doesn’t take much, the taste of Yondu is in his mouth as he comes, face half-buried in the sweaty dip of Yondu’s hips.

Kraglin’s eyes are squeezed shut, the sound and scent and feel of Yondu filling him up until he never wants to move. 

“Fuck, sir,” he slurs. Yondu makes a contented sound, then prods at Kraglin’s shoulder. 

“Not quite, maybe tomorrow,” he says. Kraglin perks up, daze clearing a little as he stares up at Yondu. It’s normally a few days between, Yondu melting slowly from brisk and business-like to to practically giving Kraglin bedroom-eyes on the bridge.

Kraglin must be showing too much on his face though, because Yondu’s closes off. 

“You know it don’t mean nothing though, right?” he fishes around on the floor, finds some questionable item of clothing and swipes it carelessly over himself. “Don’t want you getting any ideas.”

Kraglin swallows. 

Every time.

“I know,” he says, and he does.

“Just a couple men, working off some tensions,” Yondu slides his underwear back up over his hips. “Ain’t no kinda commitment, it’s just–“

“–Just been a while between ports, I _know,”_ Kraglin holds back the instinctive _Yondu_ behind his teeth, doesn’t let it slip. 

Yondu huffs out a croaky chuckle, pushes Kraglin away so he can swing his legs up onto the bed.

“We’ll sort business tomorrow, get us a new job,” he fumbles around by the side of the bed, grabs a bottle of brew, swigs a a few mouthfuls of it. 

Kraglin waits a beat for a downturned blanket, waits to see if this is one of the nights Yondu’ll make the silent invitation to slide himself into bed, snug himself along his back. Yondu only pulls his blankets higher, worming them into what’s practically a cocoon. 

Better head back then, try to get some shut eye in his own cold bunk.

“Night, sir,” he says softly, bites his lip, and goes. 


End file.
